


Liar

by mossandbones



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Manipulation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mind Games, Present Tense, pre-superhero era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 06:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17239241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mossandbones/pseuds/mossandbones
Summary: Natasha lies. She lies to Clint and she lies to herself.





	Liar

Natasha rarely ever makes mistakes on the job. Mistakes are dangerous, mistakes mean trouble and death, mistakes mean she isn't doing her best. She is good at thinking on her feet, good at improvising and turning unexpected developments to her advantage, but sometimes, on occasion, Natasha fucks up. Sometimes Natasha fucks up and people get hurt.

It was supposed to be their last job together. Clint didn't know about that particular detail yet, he wasn't meant to know about it until after she'd already left him.

The damage is severe, way worse than either of them could have prepared for considering how straightforward the job appeared. The bastards made a statement out of his body, a warning for them both. They left him for her to find, bloody and broken, an hour after the arranged time in an abandoned warehouse. Clint looks not unlike many of her own victims, faces from the past that refuse to fade from her memory. 

Natasha always had a strong stomach but it's different when it's someone like him, someone whose pain is her own. Clint is beaten and bruised, blood caked to his nose and chin, seeping into his mouth and gathering between his teeth. The cut above his eyebrow paints his temple red, the blood soaking into the neckline of his T-shirt. His fingers are stiff and bent in an angle, broken with cold deliberation, the silver ring his cover was wearing too tight around his swollen skin. His ribs are bruised purple and black, his shirt catching on his chest, heavy and sticky with blood. He wasn't even lucky enough to lose consciousness while he was waiting for her to come for him. He's wheezing with every shallow breath, trying not to jostle his broken body.

All of it over a delay in payment. Over a damned ammo shipment. 

Natasha gets the best back-alley doctor she can find to put Clint back together and pays her double to make sure she keeps her mouth shut. She keeps vigil next to Clint's bed for three days straight. They change safehouses once Clint can move more freely and hole up in a small, ratty place hidden deep in the underbelly of the city. 

It wasn't supposed to be long term. She met Barton a few months back, amazed by his eagerness for validation and his naiveté when it came to deadly women using him. He proved to be too useful to let go, carrying out whatever task she pointed him at, and so she held onto him, praising him and stroking his ego whenever he needed it, giving him the approval he so obviously craved, making him feel lucky to be around her. She played him like a fiddle and he bent to her will beautifully, doing whatever she asked of him with a smile on his face, even if it meant taking a bullet for her, just like the countless lovesick puppets who have before him, all bloodied up and discarded once they have outlived their usefulness. 

Natasha bites at the side of her mouth as she watches his prone form. He still spends most of the day in bed, knocked out by his meds, his liveliness and playful pretend-arrogance washed out of him. She wastes a lot of time just looking at him, looking at his wounds and scabs and the pain lurking behind his frown. 

He insists on helping whenever he isn't sleeping, propped up in bed calculating their finances or gathering information. He's convinced they're going back to taking jobs together once he's able to lift his bow. The fact that he hasn't tried to leave, that he hasn't blamed all of his pain on her bothers Natasha more than she cares to admit. He has taken everything with a smile and minimal grumbling, pretending he is fine, but his struggling to bend down to tie his shoes each morning is slow torture for both of them. The pain of guilt is like lightning running through her veins, burning for a second or two before fading to a dull ache in her chest. Attachment was never part of the plan. He was supposed to help her and then she was supposed to leave, leave him and forget all about him like she has done with so many other useful idiots before. But the plan is in shambles because Clint, with his trusting smiles and kind eyes, is too important to leave behind. He's a weakness waiting to be exploited, a danger to her mission and her life, yet she can't bring herself to slip out the door and never return.

"Hey," Clint murmurs suddenly. His eyes are still closed, shielded from the afternoon sun, but he smiles at her, dopey and sleepy and soft. Natasha is vaguely aware she wants to kiss him senseless. She doesn't. 

"I sent the money and burned our previous identities," she says instead. "As far as they can tell, we no longer exist." 

"Feelin' safer already," he says, opening his eyes only to wink at her, and adjusts the pillow under his head.

She smiles despite herself.

"You need to go back to sleep."

"I've been doing nothing but sleep this past week," he says. He makes a move to stretch but course-corrects as soon as his stitches bite into his skin. He lies back down gingerly, a grimace on his face. "God, I hate this."

"Just a few more weeks," Natasha says, partly to him and partly to remind herself that she has to leave. She has to stand up and walk out that door. A brand new go-bag is waiting for her in the car, filled with money, weapons, ammo, and fake papers. She hid it in a hidden compartment where Clint could easily find it if he knew to look for it in the first place. It's burning a hole in Natasha's conscience, a constant reminder of her betrayal. 

"Promise me our next job will be kinder to my ribs," Clint says. "If I have-" 

He trails off when Natasha places a hand on the side of his face. 

She watches him silently, her thumb slowly caressing his cheek, back and forth, back and forth. Clint's eyes drift shut, his eyelashes brushing against the very tip of her finger. He looks more peaceful and contented than he has in months.

"I need to leave," Natasha says. "For good. Without you."

Clint's eyes fly open.

It was a split-second decision to tell him, an instinct that has served her well before. That, or a sudden bout of idiocy.

"What? Why?" he asks, confusion clear in his voice. His fingers tighten in her shirt. "Wait." Understanding makes his eyes harden. He tries to get up but his movements pull on his bruised ribs and he winces. "This is about the beating, isn't it? For fuck's sake Nat, I thought we were over this."

"I'm a danger to you." _And you're a danger to me_ , she doesn't say. Clint doesn't need that kind of pain on top of everything. "This is how I choose to protect you."

Clint lets his legs dangle off the bed, gingerly shifting his position until he more or less has his feet touching the ground. He doesn't get up yet. He looks tired, but not yet resigned. He stares at her with wide eyes, a slow furrow appearing between his eyebrows.

"No, you got it wrong," he croaks. "You don't want to leave. If you did, you'd have left without a word already. You told me you're gonna leave because you want me to convince you to stay."

Natasha steps forward and takes hold of his head, a strong, inelegant grip on the sides of his skull, thumbs tucked under his jaw to angle his head up. Clint's eyes have fallen closed by the time her lips meet his, a sound dying deep in his throat. Her mouth on his is desperate, want and anger drumming in every move.

"You need to get away from me," she says when they break apart. "Get your head clear." 

"No," he says, his gaze unflinching. His stubbornness has always been aggravating. 

"It was manipulation, Clint. I made you fall for me."

"I don't care."

"Stupid boy," she whispers, and kisses him again.

Clint's kisses are just as desperate as her own, his hands grabbing at her to pull her closer, always closer, always breaking through her walls. She bites at his tongue, a warning and a threat, but he leans into it with a needy sound.

"Stay," he whispers against her lips when they break apart, begging with a small kiss.

Natasha frames his face with her hands, tracing his eyebrows, the faint scar on his cheekbone, the line of his lower lip.

"I'll make you a deal instead," she says, watching as Clint struggles to keep calm. "You stay here until you are fully healed, then you take the money I left you and get as far as you can. Start a new life, Clint. Be the hero you've always wanted to be. I'll come back when you're ready."

She places a finger on Clint's lips when he tries to speak.

"Please, do this for me. I can't keep hurting you."

"How do I know you'll really come back?"

A dry, lopsided smile makes its way onto her face.

"You don't. That's the price of loving a liar."

Clint swallows and lets go of her, sinews jumping under his skin as he tries to keep himself from reaching out again. Natasha steps back and lets herself look at him for a few seconds, committing every detail of his form to memory. He has lost some weight, the bones of his wide, hunched shoulders too noticeable under his tanned skin. His big hands are grasping tightly at each other in his lap, his rough skin almost stark white under his own grip. His eyes, once Natasha forces herself to look into them, are sharp with sadness and anger, reflecting her betrayal back at her.

It is what it is, and she'll just have to learn to live with the consequences.

She turns around and walks out the door, heels clicking out a hollow rhythm. 

She checks her go-bag one last time before she moves to get in the car, the roof of the trunk banging shut with ruthless finality. She catches a shadow watching her from the window but she doesn't acknowledge its presence, resolutely staring ahead. She can't afford to give in now, to string him along any further with empty promises and false maybes. She denies herself that last glance even when the car rumbles up around her, even when she grips the steering wheel and pulls out of the driveway.

This is what she wanted, what she needed to do, yet her victory weights on her like a new set of iron shackles.

The road signs tick by lazily in the peach pink of the setting sun. The highway ahead seems lonelier than usual, a yawning stretch of emptiness she never took note of before. The miles behind her trickle away like grains of sand, cheap neon lights flickering awake as she passes them. By the time she reaches the outskirts of the city, her fingers are aching on the steering wheel, a bone-deep pain drifting in and out of her awareness. 

She drives for two hours, the starry sky stretching wide and cold above her, before her resolve crumbles. She stops the car and lets her forehead rest on the steering wheel, breathing in and out. _Fool_ , she thinks, and puts the car in reverse. 

***

The room is dark when she enters, the blinds drawn to banish the chaos of the outside world, the column of light gently hanging above the city bleeding in through the gaps.

She doesn't bother to quiet her footsteps, each click too loud in the silent space. She finds Clint slouching at the small kitchen table, knees wide apart, his naked back against the chilly wall. He's cradling a cup of coffee in one hand, cold bitter leftover from the day before. He balances a knife in the other, strong fingers gripping the tip like he was planning to throw it.

Natasha stops in the doorway, her hands hidden in the pockets of her coat. When their eyes meet, Clint smiles sadly. 

"I'd say welcome back but I'm afraid this is still part of the game you play. Or was it a test?"

She takes a deep breath.

"Whatever it was, I seem to have failed."

"Have you really?"

It takes Natasha a moment to understand his meaning. The sparkle in his eyes is a good tip-off.

"I suppose not."

Clint smiles and downs the rest of his coffee, setting his cup and knife down with a small clatter as he stands. Natasha doesn't wait for him to approach her but walks up to him herself, a strong hand pulling him down to her height before she kisses him. It's stupid and dangerous and makes everything more complicated than it needs to be, but deep down she knows she would come back for him even if it was going to be her downfall.

They're breathless when they part but Clint is smiling against her lips and that seems to settle something inside her.

"And you said this was just manipulation," he whispers.

Natasha smiles back.

"I lied."


End file.
